


To Hide in Turbid Liquids

by vamp_it_up



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 19:10:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20879249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vamp_it_up/pseuds/vamp_it_up
Summary: Bertram Tung knows more about Santa Monica than anyone, but he's still caught off-guard when Therese Voerman finds out he's been working with her twin sister Jeanette to sabotage Therese's business ventures. Bertram goes into hiding to weather the storm--but a smart Nosferatu has eyes and ears besides their own, and Bertram's tells him a new vampire is coming to town.





	To Hide in Turbid Liquids

Bertram Tung had no illusions about whether Jeanette Voerman was using him. He’d been a vampire for some time. Being used or using others was a natural state for Kindred, often both at once.

She was good—he’d admit that much—but he’d been strung along by better when he’d been young and stupid. He wasn’t sure whether she knew he was aware of her game, but he didn’t want to underestimate her. If she believed he didn’t know she was stringing him along, he wasn’t going to disabuse her of the notion; if she knew he did know, they were both playing the same game: waiting to see who admitted it first.

Besides, he liked Jeanette. He enjoyed the company of Malkavians in general, and Jeanette was far from boring. The sex was okay—Bertram wasn’t really interested in it now that he was dead, but she seemed to like it. He had a feeling she didn’t like it very much with _him_, but he wasn’t broken up about it.

Besides, they didn’t fuck very often. Bertram suspected Jeanette thought she had to do it, that it was the first item on her short list of How To Get Someone Under Your Thumb. Step one, fuck ’em.

She didn’t seem to have much of a standard, and he didn’t mean her bisexuality. That was just a word for what kind of people you’d want to fuck. It was that she just didn’t care _who_ she fucked: she had a couple friends she met up with a lot, he knew, but Jeanette seemed willing to hop onto a mattress or a table or kitchen counter with just about anyone who expressed interest. Bertram wasn’t exactly concerned—she was a big girl, and not his responsibility—but he did wonder if she did it to pass the time or if there was something more to it.

Jeanette wasn’t happy unless it was loud and rough and there were bite marks, even if she had to provide them. The _subject_ of sex, however, was more tenuous. He’d said something off-the-cuff once—he didn’t even remember what it was—but it had made her whip her head around, eyes burning with a rage he’d never seen in her.

“How about this?” she’d said hotly. “You keep your goddamn ugly hole shut.”

“Alright,” he said mildly. They’d been sharing a cigarette. He held it out and she took it as she turned her back on him.

“It’s not a big deal, Jeanette,” he said, after a moment. He wasn’t sure if she wanted him to say anything or not, but he wanted the conversation to end. He had work to do, and he wasn’t about to break his rule of never logging on while Jeanette was within fifty yards.

“I know it isn’t,” she snapped. She stabbed at the shitty mattress with the cigarette butt. It sizzled as it burned the polyester. It wasn’t as if it mattered, but he rolled his eyes.

The next moment, she was bouncing around to face him, a wicked grin on her face. “Hey, Bertie. Got another cigarette?”

She’d begun calling him Bertie not long after they’d begun their...acquaintence. At first he’d found it irritating, but he’d gotten used to it. Now he could even say he didn’t mind it.

He sighed and rolled over to pick the crumpled pack up from the floor.

She waited expectantly when he held it out, eyes wide and innocent. Bertram poked a cigarette between her lips, sighed again when she still didn’t move, and lit it for her.

“Happy?” he said, laying back with his arms under his head.

She tipped her head back and blew a long stream of smoke at the ceiling. “Hey...”

He closed his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Therese wants you dead.”

“Mm-hmm.” Maybe she’d go away if she got bored.

“Like, really dead. She had some bad boys up in our room the other night. They got some greenies for their trouble.”

His eyes snapped open. “What?”

She lolled her head to glance sidelong at him. The grin that spread across her face was chilling, and Bertram didn’t chill easily. He had never seen Jeanette look like that.

“You’re as good as dead,” she whispered, raising the hand with the cigarette up by her eyes in imitation of a gun. She took a mock-shot.

“The _fuck_, Jeanette?” he snapped, sitting up. “Just when the fuck were you going to tell me this?”

“I just _did_,” she said, doing her pouty little girl voice.

Bertram grabbed his jeans off the floor and dragged them over his ankles. “Of all the crazy goddamn—”

“Berrr-tiiie,” she whined, and when he glanced over his shoulder, she was lying on her back, looking up at him like an angel.

“I don’t have time for this bullshit, Jeanette,” he said, and stood up and zipped his fly. He pulled on his shirt but didn’t bother buttoning it before taking his suitcase out of a corner and opening it. He started carefully dissembling his computer.

“You don’t have to go anywhere _now_,” protested Jeanette, but Bertram ignored her. He’d given her too much of his attention as it was, her _and_ her bitch of a sister. Fooling around with Jeanette was one thing, but to tangle with one meant you tangled with both.

And Therese was tugging at the knot.

Jeanette sat on the bed, sullenly watching him pack up the few things he kept few for this very purpose: moving from place-to-place, usually in a hurry.

“I’m gonna need to find a new monitor,” he muttered. “This piece of shit’s too big to move…” One day, Mitnick swore, computers would be smaller and more compact, and much more powerful. Bertram always rolled his eyes. Of course they would. Technology _always_ evolved. But it took time, which sucked.

Bertram wanted to strangle Jeanette. She’d gotten him into this mess, but she’d be no help getting him out. And Therese didn’t fuck around. He wasn’t going to try to meet her goons head-on, or try to anticipate any other plans she might cook up. That wasn’t his style. His style was more go-underground-and-hope-to-fuck-it-blows-over-soon.

It had kept him alive this long.

“You don’t have to run off now,” Jeanette said again, but this time she sounded outright annoyed.

“You know your sister,” said Bertram. “You know damn well I’d have been better off running off a week ago.”

Jeanette laughed. “She wasn’t after you _then_, Bertie.”

“Exactly,” said Bertram, frowning at the open suitcase on the floor. His hard-drives were wrapped in some deflated bubble wrap; it was the best he could do. He didn’t have many clothes besides the ones he wore—Nosferatu had no reason to dress up, not for the sewers and the back alleys of back alleys—but he’d always paid more attention to that kind of thing than most of his fellow Sewer Rats. Maybe that was why Jeanette showered him with her special attention.

He paused.

“Jeanette,” he said, not turning around.

“Yeah?” she said, sounding disinterested. She’d lit another cigarette.

“That last property deal. The one you said Therese was hanging all her big plans on.”

“Uh-huh.” An exhale.

“Does she know I was involved?”

“Oh, _Bertie_,” said Jeanette, and he turned to look at her. She grinned that terrible grin again. “She knows _everything_.”

“God. Fucking. _Dammit_.” He slammed the suitcase shut and snapped the locks. He grabbed his coat and yanked it on.

“Bertie!”

“I’m leaving, Jeanette.”

“I didn’t tell her!”

“It doesn’t matter. She knows.”

“But where are you _going_?” she wailed. “Don’t go, Bertie, _please_.”

For half a moment, he almost believed she’d miss him.

“I’ll let you know,” he said. He wouldn’t.

“I’ll get her to call it off!” He glanced back. She’d abandoned the cigarette. She was on all fours on the mattress, looking at him pleadingly.

“You do that,” he said, and left her there, calling his name.

Bertram settled on the old gas station. No one went there or bothered with it in any way, not even Therese, who seemed intent on snapping up as many properties in Santa Monica as possible. She was hellbent on becoming the prince of this washed-up city, and buying up abandoned or useless properties to turn them into something semi-profitable seemed like the first step in her plan. After all, Therese was successful enough, but she wasn’t wealthy. Jeanette’s wanton spending and continual interference with Therese’s financial interests made sure of that. Bertram knew Jeanette hated the very idea of the Camarilla. Anything or anyone that told her what to do was anathema. She didn’t avoid or disrupt authority so much as stamp it out any way she could. Jeanette’s ultimate goal was keeping Therese from attaining her own.

He set up his stuff in the abandoned oil tank. He’d managed to get the place hooked up to a nearby generator a couple fellow Nosferatu had helped him acquire, and scrounged up another mattress from a dumpster area, even gotten an old lamp working, though he kept it off most of the time. He emailed Knox as soon as he got his computer set up—the first thing he always did when moving to a new haven—and told him to hang out at the Asylum, maybe keep an eye on the local clinic, where Therese had some psycho ghoul selling blood to Kindred on the sly. He needed _ some _ way of keeping tabs on Therese. He cursed himself for not setting up some kind of surveillance at the Asylum while he had the chance. It was too risky now. He’d have to make do with his ghoul.

He waited a couple days before emailing Jeanette. He thought about letting her know where he was, and decided against it. Keep it short and sweet, and, above all, vague.

_I'll be hiding out until your sister calms down. Let her know I pose no threat, and have her contact me when all is well._

He hit send, not hoping for much.

Whether Therese would calm down was a coin toss. Sometimes she did, or it seemed like it, but then, she’d never before found out who else was behind Jeanette’s schemes. This time she knew her sister’s puppet was Bertram, at least for this particular bullshit.

Why had he let Jeanette drag him into this mess? Into _any_ mess? He wasn’t completely immune to the fact that she was hot, and her attentions, however affected, were flattering. He hadn’t stopped wanting to throttle her, but in the end, he still liked her. She was interesting. And sometimes he got the feeling he was the only person she ever spoke to honestly, even for a moment.

Therese was a different story. He’d met her once, when Jeanette had asked him to come see her at the Asylum. Her sister had been there instead, wrinkling her nose in distaste. He’d showered, and he hadn’t come through the sewers, but some things you couldn’t wash off. Like his curse.

Bertram had been good-looking enough in life. He certainly hadn’t been ugly. He’d had to get over his post-Embrace looks, of course, but it hadn’t taken him as long as some. He hadn’t thought about his looks much as a mortal; eventually, he forgot to care as a vampire, too.

But Therese’s disgust bothered him. Annoyed him, really. Therese thought she was better than everyone else, especially Nosferatu—not that that was unique among other Kindred. Jeanette, however crazy and infuriating she could be, did not.

Therese had made him leave, which he was only too glad to do. He’d ignored Jeanette’s next couple emails, irritated she’d left him to face Therese after asking him to see _her_. Why would you leave if you were expecting someone? That wasn’t Jeanette’s kind of crazy. It wasn’t even crazy. It was careless, or thoughtless, or just plain rude.

Thinking about it had made him uneasy, a feeling he often got when he thought too deeply about the Voerman twins. There was something wrong there, something more than the usual feeling you got from dealing with a Malkavian.

Like the day he’d learned Therese had Embraced Jeanette.

Therese didn’t act like a Malkavian, but if his information was correct—and he was certain it was—she was a lunatic, too.

There was something wrong with the Voerman twins, alright, but Bertram couldn’t help his interest in Jeanette. Eventually he’d convinced himself he stayed in close contact with her to keep tabs on Therese. And, partly, it was true.

Bertram didn’t risk attending the trial in downtown L.A., most definitely not least because Therese was attending. She wouldn’t miss a chance to show loyalty and affiliation to the Camarilla. She’d sit in the front row, probably taking notes.

He got more than enough information from his downtown Nosferatu contacts. He would have liked a video feed, but Mitnick insisted he needed better gear first. Top-of-the-line stuff, he’d called it. He was getting the last of what he needed through a kine who had no clue who he was selling to. Thought he was shipping it to Metalhead Industries in Hollywood, but Mitnick had a couple friends ready to intercept it. It was all highly illegal, so there was no risk the kine would contact each other and realize someone had been duped.

Besides, their primogen was attending. Gary never missed a good show.

Bertram made do with the news through his emails. It was good stuff. The trial had been called to judge—execute without discussion, that is—a pretty high profile Camarilla agent who’d stupidly—bewilderingly so for someone of such standing—Embraced a mortal without permission from the prince.

But the Childe had been allowed to live.

This wasn’t something that _happened_. Princes did not show mercy to those who disobeyed them, or to the result of such disobedience. According to popular knowledge, Prince LaCroix had never shown mercy at all.

The Anarchs who slummed around downtown L.A. had shown up—who knew why—and the infamous Nines Rodriguez had lost his temper and shouted the prince down before LaCroix could give what would have undoubtedly been a second order of execution.

But LaCroix had paused and announced his decision had been to let the Childe live.

No one knew much else except that he’d immediately sent the fledgling out of town. Bertram waited anxiously for news from his fellow Sewer Rats. Nothing this intriguing had happened for a long time.

The night after the trial, Bertram started up the encrypted chat he used exclusively for keeping touch with Knox.

_>What’s the news?_

It took Knox a minute to answer, a minute which had Bertram in annoyed suspense.

_>>Hear about that new kid?_

_>Yes_...

_>>Well, that new kid got sent here. /em> _

__

Bertram stared at the screen. How had _that_ not reached him by now?

__

Knox continued,_Came in a cab last night. Pulled up in front of the pawnshop._

__

_>Did you talk...?_

__

_>>No, sorry. It was almost dawn._

__

Bertram tapped a claw against the top of the cable spool serving as his desk.

__

_>Keep an eye out,_ he typed finally. _See if you can meet._

__

_>>Got it._

__

Bertram thought some more. Knox wouldn’t sign off until he did, so he took his time. There was a thread he wanted to follow...

__

He liked what he found at the other end.

__

_>Remember that guy?_

__

_>>Creepy dude? Goes WHOOSH?_

__

Bertram sighed. >_Yes._

__

_>>Got a lead._

__

_>Don’t bother. N.K. might be the answer to that little problem. I’ll send you an email._

__

After a moment, he added, >_Don’t forget to delete this log._

__

Bertram signed out of the chat, opened his email client, and wrote out his instructions.

__

__

A couple nights later, Knox informed him the limb psycho was dead.

__

Bertram had been meaning to take care of the situation, but then Therese had taken a sudden interest in his continued existence. Besides, it’s not like the guy had been hurting anyone.

__

No Kindred, anyway.

__

The Masquerade might even have been protected. Any disappearances investigated by hunters would be easily explained by some guy kidnapping people to harvest their limbs. Besides, he drained some of the blood for neater specimens, and it was easy to sneak in at night at steal a little from time-to-time. A Nosferatu had plenty to worry about without sticking their neck out hunting every night, and Therese’s little blood bank operation was out of the question.

__

Bertram supposed it wasn’t a big deal either way. There was no telling what else a hunter might notice while investigating some random murderous kine. Sometimes the Society even sent a _ smart _ one.

__

Of course, this was only shitty little Santa Monica, but you never knew.

__

It wasn’t a staggering piece of work for the average vampire, but it was impressive for a fledging who’d been pushed out of the nest right after hatching.

__

Bertram decided this was a fledgling he wanted to meet.

__

__

It wasn’t long before Bertram got the news that meeting _ him _ was precisely what the fledgling wanted. A Camarilla agent Bertram had been keeping tabs on, some guy with a weird fucking name—Mercurio, that was it—had been tasked with getting some explosives to take out an important point of the Sabbat’s current interests. Weapons smuggling, mostly.

__

Apparently, Prince LaCroix had entrusted his newest soldier with what was practically a suicide mission, and apparently, Bertram was the only one who could help the fledgling get there without every Sabbat member in the area knowing about it.

__

He was, of course. No one knew more about Santa Monica than Bertram Tung, not Wanna-Be-Prince Therese Voerman, not even Mercurio, who’d been there for some time and had an impressive list of contacts for a ghoul.

__

Then again, Therese was a decided obstacle.

__

Bertram Tung was half-expecting the call he got from the Asylum a couple nights later. The feud was off. He no longer had to worry about Therese Voerman.

__

The new kid hadn’t wasted much time taking care of Bertram’s little twin-shaped problem. The Cathayan had been dealt with, too. Bertram was almost sorry Prince LaCroix wanted the fledgling back downtown once the warehouse was taken care of. Bertram could have used another capable vampire around Santa Monica.

__

__

When the fledgling finally showed up at his oil tank, Bertram affected disinterest. “Look who finally made it,” he said. “Thought you’d never find me, huh?”

__

The fledgling looked pissed-off, fed-up, and beaten-down. _Welcome to unlife, kid._ “Are you Bertram Tung?”

__

“The one and only,” replied Bertram, and grinned. “Don’t bother with an introduction: I _know_ who _you_ are.”

__


End file.
